The Days Are Numbered

It was a gloriously gorgeous day. Blue sky, fluffy white clouds. The sun, bright and warm, tempered by a cool breeze ruffling the hair. A day that heralded the coming of Autumn.


I am sooo not ready for this. I am not ready to face another winter. I’m not ready for the cold. The threats of snow. I’m not ready for the short days, the darkness outside and the darkness in my brain.

“Oh, but there’s plenty of time before winter comes! There will be more days like today, many more!”

That’s true. But it doesn’t seem like that to me. As a year passes, the days, weeks, and months rush by seamlessly, with the anonymity and speed of water in a fast-moving stream. Very few discrete periods stand out. When I can recall a particular day, its pictures slip and slide like a half-remembered dream. One little saying of mine is “I can’t remember what happened twenty minutes ago, so you know I can’t remember what happened [last week].” Rarely fails to get a laugh out of people. What they don’t know is that it’s true.

So for me, winter might as well come tomorrow.

My brain has been wack since 2016. I wasn’t exactly fine before then but it seems that was the year it spazzed. Every seven years, give or take a couple of months, whatever medications I’m on stop working. I don’t know why. They just do. Then the search begins for a new cocktail. When my meds stopped working in 2016, my prior psychiatrist didn’t seem to know what to do. He kept changing the dosage of the meds I was taking but he didn’t change the meds. He gave me more meds to deal with the side effects from the other meds. But I wasn’t getting better; I was getting worse. It’s like the man was busy rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic and meanwhile this ship was going down fast. So here I was, my bipolar illness out of control. It was like riding on some kind of insane rollercoaster. I told you in an earlier post about my mad spending sprees. I call my manic state “the lady with the leopard-print stilettos.” She goes out and does all kinds of shit and then retreats, leaving me holding the bag. And I’m still carrying that big-ass bag she left me with and will probably be carrying it for the rest of my life.

Eventually I changed shrinks, to the one I have now. I have some issues with her but overall, I’d say she’s been a help. Like when I got locked up in the psych ward last year, she immediately changed my meds. The last time I was suicidal I was seeing the other shrink and all he did was–you guessed it. The meds I’m on now are mostly different from the ones I was on last year, except for the lithium on lamictal. I’m off the rollercoaster–for the most part–and I’m relieved but the problem now is I’m usually stuck at the bottom of the track. I’m trying out other things, like hypnosis and meditation, though I’m not very good at keeping a schedule. I’m working on getting back into the gym on a regular basis. But it’s like I have to fight myself to get anywhere.

One thing I know for sure is my bipolar illness is becoming worse as I age. It gets harder and to keep up with my obligations, both personal and professional. I’ve thought very seriously about retiring on disability but I sure as hell can’t afford it. No way can I live on 60% of my salary. And, like a fool, I canceled my supplemental disability insurance which would have paid the other 40%.

So…I guess the only thing I can do is try and hang on. Well, there is another option and I can’t fathom why I haven’t taken it but for some reason I’m still here.

Time to gird myself for another day.


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